


confession

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [150]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, MAGLOR BEING MAGLOR, POV First Person, written and posted in 10 minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 16:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: A gift can easily become a curse.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë & Sons of Fëanor
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [150]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	confession

A gift can easily become a curse, when both are from God. I think that must have been my music. It was for a holier soul than I have now.

Mother told me I sang almost before I spoke. Maedhros admire my talents more than I did—and I was very proud.

Athair called me a genius. Just once, and as if he scarcely noticed that he spoke the word. But I remembered, and I turned it over and over, less a compliment and more a pearl of great price.

_Go out, and sell all your land—_

Even if my fingers were not stiff and my harp unbroken, I would not play. There is no song under my skin, no words etched on my heart. I forget who I was. I forget that I set out, grieving a woman—a woman with a _name._

I wailed my way west. For this, I am silent, now. They do not think so, my brothers. _They_ hear me speak. Beast-howls that take the form of cunning; they consider it speech. I listen for the same from them.

A gift can easily become a curse, if you lose it. I lost everything, and am surrounded by the rest.

I should have cherished them all, as _he_ did. Would I, then, be less lonely?

I am not lonely, though. This is not loneliness, but the simple existence of being alone. If the mountains have no song in them, when the wind is silent, so there is nothing in me, however much a better man might feel and weep as I used to.

(I have never been better. I only _had_ better.)

This, all this, is written nowhere, spoken nowhere, not even owned by my waking mind. I am half-asleep when I think it; not resting.


End file.
